


you are its only tenet

by goldbooksblack



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Smut, canon compliant? at the moment?, jurdan - Freeform, jurdan is established and in love, with problems of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-18 09:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14849903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldbooksblack/pseuds/goldbooksblack
Summary: If you had asked him how this mess had all started, he would have been at a loss for words.





	1. part i

**Author's Note:**

> I do want to apologize for one thing before you read this, and that is the switching of tenses. As a writer, I try to be cognizant of not being so capricious with my tenses, but this fic took a lot out of me. As a result, you're going to see me flipping between present and past tense quite a bit. 
> 
> (Hopefully you) Enjoy!

The High King of Faerie leans his head on an elbow crooked on the arm of his seat, listening to courtiers bicker back and forth. It is another grand dinner, and candles are lit before him, flickering in the cool breeze. Beside him, his wife titters on about something going on among her ladies-in-waiting, but he is barely listening. Instead, he allows his gaze to drift to something further down the long table.

An empty seat.

Dark eyes, crow black, scan the room until they come to rest on a young woman, hair swept up in a tight updo, jewels glittering across her body. It gives him a unique form of satisfaction to see the uncomfortableness in which Taryn Duarte regards her husband, chattering away to another pretty noble sitting across from them. Locke’s russet hair gleams in the gold candlelight, his fox’s smile on full display.

But as much as he enjoys the miserableness of it all, Taryn is not the sister he is looking for.

“Cardan? Darling, are you even listening?”

He performs an unceremonious quarter twist to look at Nicasia, whose face is pinched. She already knows the answer. “Of course, of course,” he mutters, tampering down his annoyance. All he has to do is make it through dessert. “What were you saying?”

~*~

He makes his way there on foot, cognizant of the unwanted publicity of riding a horse.

The cottage is small, a far cry from the sprawling halls of the royal palace. And instantly, his heart warms at the sight, its differences soothing him. Candles are lit in the house, illuminating it from the inside. And as he makes his way towards the door, his eyes fixate on the uppermost window, in which a shadow is moving around slowly, the flicker of the candle in the pane covered and uncovered.

His key turns, and the door swings open. His footfalls are silent as he makes his way upstairs, and even she doesn’t turn as he drawls from the doorway of the bedroom, “You missed the party.”

She doesn’t turn as she replies, “It didn’t suit me.”

He makes his way across the room to slip his arms around her waist, fingers brushing against the gossamer fabric of her nightgown. Cardan can hear her breath hitch slightly as his breath grazes her ear, a soft whisper. “That’s a shame.” Fingers trailing up her hips, a ghost of a touch. “I was looking forward to seeing you there.”

Jude Duarte turns her head slightly, and he has to stifle a shudder at the touch of her hair to his cheek. “You’re seeing me now.”

A laugh, full and sweet, loosens itself from his throat, and something warms in the pit of his stomach. Sliding his head down her cheek and against her jaw, Cardan presses open-mouthed kisses to the column of her neck. He can feel her tremble, and he revels in it. The knowledge that he can make her feel this way.

Jude tips her head back and moans, the sound reverberating. Her fingers come up to cover Cardan’s, and together they hold her waist. He shuts his eyes as he presses a final kiss to her collarbone, breathing in the citrus scent of her skin.

Abruptly, his hands leave her waist, sliding up the side of her chest, before resting on her breast. Jude gasps quietly, restraining a groan, as he slides one of the thin straps of her gown off her shoulder, fingers grasping at the bare skin below.

And then, before she has time to say anything, he’s spun her around and hoisted her up off of the floor, earning him a yelp. Cardan moves them to the wall, pressing their bodies flush against it and each other. He bends his head once again to her chest, and this time Jude does moan, as Cardan puts his mouth on her breast, sucking and licking. “Cardan . . .”

He gives her breast one final kiss before trailing his lips downwards, down past her stomach, her abdomen . . . she gasps, back arching as he puts his mouth squarely on her core, and a whimper escapes from her own mouth. He can feel her grasping blindly for anchor, her fingers finally latching onto his hair. He sneaks a look upwards, and is rewarded with the sight of his spymaster’s eyes shut, mouth open in sharp pleasure. “Oh,” he murmurs. Sliding his fingers between them. “Oh, my beautiful Jude.”

Jude cries out again, hands curling tighter in his raven hair as his fingers and mouth stroke her. Not even inside her, but somehow much, much more torturous. The High King smirks against her as she freezes and then mewls. He holds her tight as she climaxes, head lolling against the wall. Cardan leans his face into her neck. “You are simply exquisite when you come, do you know that?”

She picks her head up again and fixes him with a look. “I wonder,” she whispers, tightening her arms around his neck and moving her lips closer to his ears. “How _you_ look when you come.”

He’s throbbing already, but gods, this woman . . .

She tugs herself out of his arms and kneels on the floor, pushing his clothes down. He throws his head back and moans as she puts her mouth on him, and it is his turn to fist her hair in his grip. She takes nearly all of him in her mouth. Cardan puts a hand on the back of her head, and Jude takes him even deeper. She leans back and runs her fingers along the length of him, and he has to restrain himself as she lightly allows her nails to graze him, her mouth running at the same time. “Jude.”

She ignores the call, and reaches behind him. He gives a loud moan at the feel of her fingers wrapped around his tail, and his hips buck into her mouth. “ _Jude_.”

“Hmm?” She looks up at him, innocently, and he nearly loses himself in her dark rosewood eyes, pupils blown wide open.

He lets out a low growl and picks her up, carrying her to the bed. He’s ridiculously hard against her as her hands claw at his shirt as he kisses her, fumbling with the buttons. “You wear such ridiculous things,” she mutters against his lips, finally managing to wrestle it off of him. He laughs.

“It’s fortunate you wear things that are easier to slip off, isn’t it?” Indeed, her nightgown had been lost somewhere between the wall and the bed, and the full glory of her body was exposed to him. He takes a blissful moment to appreciate it, curves and hard muscle alike. Ghosting his fingers down her torso, Cardan earns a sharp intake of breath from her.

And then another one as he thrusts forward.

Jude rises off the sheets, crying out, fingers digging into his shoulders. He twists his hips a little bit, rolling them into her as he reaches up with one hand to fondle a breast. Cardan savors the cadence of the sounds that are coming out of his lover’s throat, seemingly endless. Her nails are raking down his back, in pleasure and in pain.

Suddenly, Jude flips them over, switching their positions. Now it is Cardan’s turn to pant, staring up at her flawless body. Her cheeks are red, her entire body tinged pink as she gasps for breath. A whimper escapes her as she lowers herself onto him, taking him as deep as she can.

The king throws his head back for what seems like the millionth time that night and groans. Jude ride him, hard, her nails scratching his chest as she screams. “Cardan,” she pants, fingers scrabbling for a grip. “ _Cardan_.” He can feel her tighten around him, and feel the tremble of her body as she goes limp against his chest. With a few more thrusts, he comes with a low growl.

They stay like that, for a sweet moment, lost in the intimacy of lovemaking. He reaches a hand up to stroke her dark locks, breathing in their mingled scents. Finally, it is Jude who tugs herself out of his grasp and curls herself into his side. Stubbornly, Cardan presses his front to her back and snakes an arm around her. He buries his face into her neck once more and whispers, so quietly that even she can hardly hear it, “I love you, Jude Duarte.”

Jude is silent, and he is afraid that he has done something wrong, violated the sanctity of their tenuous relationship, until—

“I love you too, Cardan.”

~*~

If you had asked him how this mess had all started, he would have been at a loss for words.

Perhaps he would start with the first day he saw Jude, so utterly human, with her curved ears and almost-scentable fear, sitting in the midst of all of the other Fae children with only her sister to cling onto. Even as a foolish child, nearly a decade and a half ago, he had Nicasia, and Locke, and Valerian. She had no one.

Perhaps he would start with the first time she had kissed him, in the bunker of the Court of Shadows. He had been giddy and shocked at the same time, struggling to keep his cursed tail in check after it all. But then she had crowned him, and he had launched himself into loathing and cruelty like never before.

Or perhaps he would start with his wedding day.

He hadn’t seen her for weeks, not after his engagement to Nicasia had been made public. She had been in the crowd when Orlagh had sprung the news on the gathering of nobles; Cardan had known, of course, but had kept it to himself. For weeks. Attempting to riddle out what to tell Jude. They’d had a more-than affair even at that point, nearly two years ago. He’d been persuaded to keep the crown even after their bargain, and although Oak was still too young to tell, he suspected that if Jude had her way, she would see him on the throne for the rest of her life.

But the sight of her face in the crowd, the flash of shock and then sorrow—not anger—was enough to sear the memory into his mind.

He knew that she was most likely out on some reconnaissance mission, ensuring the safety of their borders and such. The Roach stayed behind, as did the Bomb, but the Ghost had accompanied her. Or so he guessed. The Court of Shadows had been tight-lipped about the whole affair.

“Your majesty?” He turned to see Val Moren standing before him. “The ceremony will start in a half hour.”

Cardan waved a dismissive hand. “Of course.”

The court poet bowed deeply, scuttering away. Cardan was still young, and volatile yet. No one had forgotten the circumstances that had allowed him to come to the throne.

He turned back to the mirror, adjusting his black suit. Nicasia would hate it, and Orlagh would frown at it, but as far as he was concerned, he was mourning something. His lips voiced that it was himself, but his soul knew better.

Even if he tried, Orlagh would never let him go. No doubt Nicasia had “let slip” to her mother that she was no longer pure, and that it had been Cardan who had contributed to that. Never mind those before him, or even Locke afterwards. His involvement was enough to erode any credibility should he want a separation.

So he was trapped. A bubble of laughter, unbidden, rose in his throat, like a madman’s chuckle. He, the most powerful king of Faerie, was a slave to the wishes of a childhood friend and her mother. When one put it that way, he seemed very foolish indeed.

Cardan tugged at his lapels one more time before moving towards the door. But when he opened it, he froze.

Clothed in ivory-nude, fist raised to knock, Jude Duarte looked like a bride frozen in time. His eyes darted all over her figure, an ache rising in his chest as he took in the color of her dress, gathered at the waist and flaring out. It was so, so easy to imagine her as the bride. Instead of Nicasia’s deep blue hair, it would be Jude’s dark brown, and instead of Nicasia’s blushing stare, it would be Jude’s defiant one. He could imagine her staring up at him, lips curled at the edges, as if daring him to confirm the officiator’s instructions of dedication.

But it wouldn’t be her. And he didn’t voice any of that. Instead, what came out of his mouth was, “You’ve got a lot of balls wearing white to a wedding.”

Jude scoffed, her fist lowering, pushing past him into the dressing room. “It’s ivory.”

He watched her as she stepped into the center of the room and paused. Froze, more accurately.

Cardan was on her in an instant, arms wrapping around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. “Say the word,” he whispered, the plea evident in his voice. No questions asked about her months-long disappearance, or her sudden attendance at his door. “Say the word, and I won’t marry her.”

Jude was slack in his arms, her eyes fixed directly ahead of her. Her fingers came up to run over the bones of his hand. A hairpin stabbed at his neck, but he ignored it. “Tell me. Tell me not to marry her.”

Her hand dropped. “I cannot.”

He stepped back, releasing her. She didn’t move. “Why not?”

Silence.

“Why not, Jude?”

“Because—” she started, folding her arms and whirling around to look at him. Her skirts spun with her, a halo around her legs. “No doubt those better versed in politics than I have been negotiating this marriage for years, ever since Nicasia was sent here. If you back out now, Orlagh will come after you, and all of Elfhame will be dragged into an unwinnable war with the Undersea. Not to mention that fact that Orlagh will win a good portion of your own subjects. Sleeping with Nicasia tends to have that side effect.”

“Do you want me to marry her?”

“I want what’s best for the kingdom.”

“I asked,” he said, stepping closer. “If you want me to marry her.” He was inches away from her, so close that he could feel her breath. She stared up at him, so much shorter than him that he could easily pull her under his chin. “Well, Jude?”

“You don’t get to do this,” she breathed, and he could see her fists clenching at her sides. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what, Jude?” He murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do what?”

“This,” she snarled, flinching away from his touch. “You don’t get to make assumptions about what I want. You don’t get to ambush me like this. You don’t get to toss all of your decisions on me and ask me to make them for you.”

“Jude—”

“—no!” She shouted. “No, Cardan, I don’t want you to marry her! I don’t—” she turned around, cutting herself off.

“What?” He asked gently, stepping forth. “What do you need, Jude?”

“Nothing,” she snapped back. “Absolutely nothing.” Jude turned, staring up at him once more. “Marry Nicasia,” she said flatly. “It’ll be good for both of your kingdoms.”

He watched her as she stormed out, until she was so far down the hall that she was a speck in the distance.

~*~

Nicasia’s arm is looped in his as they step out into the room, music announcing their entrance. The queen beams. Her hair is swept up in an updo today, exposing the pale expanse of her neck. She looks regal, and there is no doubt that she is. She doesn’t look at him, but he can feel the exasperation coming off of her, as if to scold him into looking more lively.

Cardan makes the appropriate greetings to the appropriate people, then slips off into the crowd. He can feel Nicasia’s glare on his back, but she was the one who had wanted power, after all.

He felt no qualms in letting her have it.

About a year after his coronation, offers had started flooding in. Fae from all corners of the lands, some lords, some ladies, some kings, some queens, all offering up their children’s hands. Some in marriage, some in less polite implications. He had laughed it off in the moment, but as rifts began to form within his own kingdom, and pressures mounted from the senders of the unanswered letters . . .

The bubble had broken, and it was Orlagh who marched up to his throne one sunny afternoon, demanding an audience. The queen might have been just a few decades younger than his own father at the time of his passing, but she seemed much younger, with her high cheekbones and deep blue hair. Her tone had been sweet, but her words had been underlined by a serpentine poison that had not escaped him as she informed him of what Nicasia had told her. About their relationship.

Cardan had known that it was doomed from the moment Orlagh stepped into the room.

He would have laughed in her face, queen or no queen, had she not casually picked at her nails and remarked, “I wonder how that lovely mortal of your general’s is doing.”

His heart had stopped. Completely.

“It’s such a shame that she chose that Locke, hmm? Of course, there are worse things that could come.”

His hand had relaxed on the armrests of his throne.  _Taryn_. Gods, he had never been so grateful for Taryn’s existence. (In fact, it was the first and last time he would be grateful for Jude’s sister.)

Cardan had schooled his face into polite fear, as if Orlagh had chosen the correct sister. And agreed. To the engagement, to the wedding, to all of it. If only to keep Jude safe.

He stands among the revelers now, scanning the crowds for that exact woman, before the Roach comes up at his shoulder.

The king takes a deep sip of his goblet. “Yes?”

“Nothing,” says the spy with an easy grin. “Just . . . keeping you on your toes.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I thought you and your court were supposed to be . . .” Cardan makes a vague gesture. “Out of sight. In the shadows. Hence your name.”

“Ah, well, we like to crawl out of the woodwork occasionally. Make some appearances, steal some gold.”

“It’s nice to know that my spies are in good working order being thieves.”

“She keeps us in check.”

There was no question as to who “she” was.

“She’s there,” says the Roach quietly, angling his wine towards the side of the room. Jude is standing with her stepmother, both of them absorbed in deep conversation. Oriana seems almost agitated, head bending closer to Jude’s by the second. She is whispering something rapidly, and Jude looks almost chastised, her sight moving towards the ground. Finally Oriana sighs and leans back, murmuring something that makes Jude’s eyes flash and wrench her wrist out of Oriana’s grasp. She spits something back, and storms off, emerald skirts swirling behind her.

“Keep them occupied,” he says absentmindedly to the Roach, before heading off to seek out Jude.

~*~

He finds her among the trees outside the revel, arms crossed around one another, eyes staring at nothing in particular. She starts when he touches her elbow, and draws her close. Jude seems stiff tonight, but her body willingly slackens against his chest.

“You seem tense.”

“Do I?”

Cardan leans his chin on her shoulder. “What did Oriana say to you?”

“You were spying on me?”

“You were in the middle of the room. I’d hardly call it spying, and shouldn’t you of all people know what spying is?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing is nothing. That hardly seemed like nothing.”

“It’s none of your concern,” Jude throws at him, breaking free of his grip.

“I’m just trying to look after you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need your protection.” She scoffs. “If anything, _I_ am _your_ protection.”

“And I appreciate it.”

She seems to deflate a little at his words, at the sincerity of them. He leaps at the chance, stroking his hands over her cheeks and kissing her insistently. They are pushed back against a tree, panting and grasping before he breaks from her lips. “Marry me,” he gasps.

“What?” Jude’s hair is beautifully mussed, her lips swollen red from kissing. Her eyes stare at him incredulously. “What?”

“Marry me,” he insists, and attempts to kiss her again, but Jude pushes him back.

“I think you’ve had too much wine,” she says slowly, adjusting the neckline of her dress.

“No, I don’t think so,” he replies, and in his mind he knows that his intentions are as pure as they’ve ever been. “Marry me, Jude Duarte.”

“Cardan, you’re—” she struggled to finish.

“I’m what? I’m right? Jude,” he grabs both of her arms. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

“No!” She says, a little laughter shaking her voice. As if she is nervous. “You’re a fool, Cardan,” she says finally. “You’re a fool.”

“No,” he brings her fingers up to his lips. “I’m fighting.”

“Even if you wanted, you could never do it. Orlagh would slice your head off.”

“And if I could?” He breathed. His mouth was running at a million times the speed of his mind, but he persisted. “If I could find a way to invalidate the whole marriage?”

“I would say good for you, but you can’t.”

“Will you be in the cottage a month from now?”

“What?”

“The cottage. Next month, on this date?”

“I—I suppose. But why?”

Cardan brought his lips in close. “I’ll find a way.”

 


	2. part ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just a lil' shorter. Okay, a lot shorter. But I love Nicasia.

Nicasia is a pawn.

She knows it. From the moment she had been sent to Elfhame, barely months after she could walk, she had been a contract. She is a queen’s daughter, but the title of ‘princess’ does not confer to her.

“You are there for a reason,” Orlagh had snapped at Nicasia, age eight. “Do you think I enjoy being under Eldred’s control? Do you think I wish to curtsy to him, smile diligently when he introduces his haughty reforms?”

“No, Mother.”

“Good. Perhaps you are not as foolish of a child as I thought you were. Stay, and keep your mouth shut. And perhaps you will be so little of a fool that you will be able to marry one of the princes. And be a queen.” Orlagh had laughed at her own words then, tittering to herself.

So she had stayed. For seventeen years she had been raised among the land Fae, learning their mythology, learning about her court outside her court. A part of her resented her mother for it, abandoning her in a foreign place, so different that when she visited the Undersea, her own people looked upon her with wary eyes.

But she had done what her mother had wished. She had married a prince. She had become a queen.

And yet, sitting beside her husband at the autumnal equinox dinner, it feels like a punishment more than anything else. She traces the rim of her glass, watching the wine tremble from the movement. She nods her head when one of the visiting dignitaries makes small talk underlined with politics, and answers their questions deftly. But out of the corner of her eye, she can see the High King’s face melting into mediocre interest. “Cardan? Darling,” she tries, and the words taste dry in her mouth. “Are you even listening?”

“Of course, of course,” he replies, his hand coming up as if to wave away her concern. “What were you saying?”

She struggles to keep her face from falling. “Nothing much,” her tone is light. Cardan returns to staring out into the crowd.

Nicasia cannot deny the part of her that loves Cardan. The part of her that yearns for his affection, the part of her that remembers how he had cherished her. But that was when they had been children, and they are children no more. Cardan loves her no longer. She doubts if he ever had.

Part of her knows. Part of her recognizes the way that his eyes wander from her seemingly every time she speaks.

And part of her knows where they wander to, although the words stick in her throat every single time.

~*~

“And how is your court?”

Nicasia picks at a sugar crusted scone on her plate as Orlagh sips from her teacup. “It’s all running smoothly. We’re set to have a few dignitaries from the Court of Termites next week, and the week after that—”

“—and your husband? How is he?” Orlagh stirs the amber liquid, ignoring Nicasia’s nervous line of conversation.

“He’s fine. He’s perfect, actually.” Nicasia sees her mother’s eyes narrow out of the corner of her eye, and quickly shoves the scone into her mouth to prevent being forced to answer any more questions.

Orlagh lets out a suffering sigh. “Cardan,” she muses, turning over the name on her tongue. “Cardan.”

Nicasia shifts at the queen’s pondering tone. Then she starts a little at her referral to Orlagh as _the queen._ Because, after all, she is a queen as well. And after all these years, she is a titular equal to her mother.

And yet, the title of queen seems so distant from her.

Almost as if it belongs to someone else.

Finally, Orlagh _tsks_ , and Nicasia’s throat dries as the biscuit drags its dry crumbs down it. “It’s a shame, you know. That your husband strays so far, and so easily.”

Her heart pounds uncomfortably.

“How embarrassing it is, to you and to me, that he prefers that mortal girl over a daughter of Faerie.”

She lowers her head. “Yes, Mother.”

“Well?” Her mother demands, and tentatively, she picks her head up again. Orlagh’s cheeks are flushing pink rapidly. A tremor passes through her body, but Nicasia says nothing. The Queen of the Undersea huffs and stands. Her daughter shoots to her feet, a little dizzy from the blood rush.

Orlagh leans closer to the Queen of Elfhame. “Riddle it out,” she commands. “If I have heard about this, no doubt others have as well. This is unacceptable for a queen. Decide how you want to control this.” Her lips are so close to her ear that she can feel the wetness on the shell. “I never want to hear of this ever again.” 

Nicasia bows her head. “Yes, Mother.”

~*~

Cardan does not share her bed.

Nicasia tosses and turns by herself, in the bed that is too large for just one person. They had consummated the marriage on the first night, before Cardan had promptly declared that he would be moving his belongings to the other, smaller bedroom on the opposite side of the castle. Nicasia had protested, thrown whines and threats at him, but he had simply cast an exasperated look at her and walked out. He had left her standing there like a fool. Or perhaps, like a bride whose husband already did not want her.

Tonight, she decides on the left side of the bed, staring at the empty spot beside her. She wonders just how many of the monarchs spanning Faerie and its history have spent nights like this alone; all the power in the world, and yet love the only thing eluding them.

Her fingers fist the sheets in a sudden rise of hot anger, and she makes a move to get up, to make the long strides across the room to her door and out into the hallway and to the opposite wing to—

—but she falls down after the initial rise, her body flattening against the sheets once more.

No matter what she does, no matter if she strips naked and pleads for him to take her, Cardan would refuse. She wants to scream every time she realizes it, every time his eyes stray from her to _Jude Duarte_ , of all people—

Jealousy consumes her, her lungs seizing inside her with it. But Nicasia knows, knows deep in her heart, that little can be done.

 _Perhaps you will be so little of a fool that you will be able to marry one of the princes,_ her mother had said. _And be a queen._

She is a queen.

She is a queen.

She is a queen.


	3. part iii

The Queen watches the shifting waves from her position on the Insmire bank, across the channel to Insmoor. The wind whips around her dark hair, creating a tornado of darkness around her face.

“There’s trouble?” Jude turns to the Roach, who stands beside her, gaze also directed towards the island.

The hulking man shrugs, his green skin looking even greener in the strange orange-blue glow of the setting sun. “Not much. I mean, there’s hardly any people there anyway. But I’ve heard reports that the land is turning swampy. Not good for farming.”

Jude grunts in response, mind already running over all of the effects of a lack of food: rebellion, famine, strikes. She sighs and turns away, adding the information to a mental to-do list, comforted only by the fact that it was likely minor, if it was anything concerning at all. “I have to be getting back,” she mutters.

The Roach catches up with her despite her fast stride. “For what? For the party or for the king? He is rather majestic, isn’t he?” She can’t see him, but she can imagine his shit-eating grin.

Jude snorts. “Should I leave you alone for a bit? Seems like you have a lot to go over with your feelings for the  _majestic_ king.”

“A little skinny for me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Scintillating. Wish I cared enough to discuss this with you.”

The Roach chuckles. Then— “I hear that Orlagh is going to be in attendance.”

She stifles a groan. Orlagh attending means that security will be two to three times tighter, and all of Elfhame will be on strict lockdown until she leaves. Not to mention the presence of the courtiers of the Undersea, none of which have impressed Jude thus far. “It’s a power play.”

“Of course it is. Question is . . . what is she worried about?”

~*~

By the time the silvery moon has replaced the sunset, Jude has slipped out of her dirty shirt and pants, and into a midnight blue ballgown with delicate lace sleeves and gold beading. She is a shadow in the dark steps leading under the hill.

She steps carefully into the main room, and—ignoring the din of the partygoers and brightness of the candles—lets her eyes roam across the crowd. A few feet to her left, she can see Locke’s bright hair, bent together with that of a young blonde. Taryn is nowhere in sight, and Jude briefly considers demanding of Locke where she is, and retaliating when he feeds her his requisite lie, but the time for monitoring Taryn is long past. Bygones have been bygones. And yet instead of forgiveness there is only a dull sense of neutrality.

Moving swiftly to her right, she can see the Roach’s shadowy movements, obviously eager to slip away to his guard spot. She is certain the Ghost is already somewhere up in the rafters, and the Bomb not too far.

And directly in front of her, up on the platform, is the royal family.

She seems to have missed Orlagh’s formal introduction, although she can still see half of the queen’s beautiful face as she is turned towards her daughter. Orlagh’s face is carefully neutral, but from Nicasia’s reaction, nothing her mother is saying can be too good. It always surprises Jude somewhat, every time she witnesses a conversation between Orlagh and Nicasia; growing up with Nicasia had taught her that she took much pride in her mother—boasting and bragging every chance she saw. But from what she has seen of the two of them, Nicasia only seems to be burdened by the sea queen.

“Jude.”

She turns to meet Oriana, decked in baby blue. “Oriana.”

They do not speak as they take a casual turn around the room. Jude can already guess what Oriana is going to say— “Do you remember what I spoke to you about nearly a moon ago?”

The spy feels her lips curl into a mocking smile, although she hardly means it. “How could I forget?” She refuses a glass of champagne from a server, but watches Oriana accept and all but gulp it down.

“You may think that I am being a hindrance,” her foster mother says slowly, her tone hushed. “That I am pestering you. But believe me when I say that your connection to the king puts you at more risk than anyone in the room. And if a child is produced . . .”

“I know,” snaps Jude.

Oriana grabs her wrist. “Orlagh is here,” she says brusquely. “And do not forget who our own queen is. Their family has controlled the Undersea since my grandmother’s time, and her grandmother’s time, and her grandmother’s time. If Orlagh finds out remotely anything about this, do you really think she will hesitate to do something?” Before Jude can respond, Oriana shakes her head. “Marrying Nicasia was the most foolish thing that boy ever agreed to.”

Jude tries to wrench her wrist out of Oriana’s grasp, but she merely tightens her hold. “Do you remember what you swore to me?”

She nods, silently. How could she not? That afternoon, in the drawing room, the covenant formed via the secret of Oriana’s relationship with Eldred.

“Good.” She releases Jude, and even with her back turned, walking away, she can still feel the woman’s gaze on her.

~*~

She has not approached Cardan all night.

And for all of his rash ways, she does not feel his gaze on her, either. Not in the presence of his wife’s mother.

Jude enjoys herself as much as she can. Which is to say, she does not. The smell of faerie food is thick and cloying in the air, a reminder of what she is clearly not. She is halfway between guard and chaperone at this celebration (of what exactly, she also does not know), chasing away teenage Fae from having sex in the bushes to keeping an eye on the stiff royals.

Cardan has not moved from his position at the front of the room all night, betwixt his wife and his mother-in-law. His face has been set in a uninterested expression all night, although if Jude has to guess, it was a façade as carefully constructed as Orlagh’s. In contrast, Nicasia has been chattering to her mother all night, although upon closer inspection, it looks more like an interrogation than it does a conversation.

Jude brushes a stray curl behind her ear, turning away from the High King and queens. The Bomb had woven her way into the crowd a few hours previous to offer her a reprieve from the festivities, with the rest of the Court of Shadows. Sitting around a fire, splitting a bottle of the fine wine that the Ghost had stolen from the royal stock, it all sounds much better than hours more with stuffy aristocrats. She is just about to make a move to exit the room and check that the Roach is alright with taking over her shift when—

“Lady Jude.”

She turns, and tampers down her shock at seeing two members of the Undersea guard facing her. From the intricately embroidered symbol on their chest, she can tell that they are not only guards, but royal guards at that.

Members of Orlagh’s personal detail.

“May I help you?”

The one on the left moves away from his partner, allotting space between them. “This way, please.”

She is marched throughout the castle, away from the ballroom. She does not dare to look up in the little nooks and crannies of the slats and roof to see if her fellow spies are following her, but she is willing to take the gamble that they are. Jude has to admit, despite all of her time in Faerie, all of her time being an enemy-not-enemy of the state, she has never been escorted like a miscreant like this. Which is what unsettles her so much.

The soldiers escort her nearly all the way to the opposite side of the castle, and Jude is almost nervous that she is part of a ploy to be thrown into the dungeon, when they stop in front of the grand double doors of the castle library.

One of the guards nods towards them. “Go ahead.”

Attempting to conceal her trepidation, Jude curls her fingers around one of the elaborate door handles and pushes.

She has only been in the library a handful of times, and never in the evening. The room is a spacious, sprawling setting, lined wall-to-wall with books. A fireplace crackles in the back, flanked by two long mahogany tables. The left wall is lined with elegant sunburst windows, rectangular on the bottom and curving towards the top. During the day, sunbeams stream through them, illuminating the smooth parquet floors. But during the night, the moon shines sweetly through the windows, her silvery light contrasting with the harsher citrine flames of the lit candles.

But the figure standing squarely in the middle of the room, analyzing the delicately bound volumes is the most intriguing thing.

Queen Orlagh claps her fingers together when she sees Jude come into the room. “Ah,” she says. Her voice is silvery and as saccharine as Faeries wine. “The famous Jude Duarte.”

Jude performs a curtsy. “Your majesty.”

Orlagh says nothing, merely paces closer and then further, as if too royal to even gaze upon her. Jude watches as she turns around the room numerous times, saying nothing to her. It is minutes and minutes later that she even dares to open her mouth again.

“If I may ask, your majesty,” Jude says slowly, knowing that she is already out of bounds but somehow too impatient to care— “Why did you request me?”

“Why did I request you.” Orlagh turns the question around on her tongue, a slow weighing. The queen turns, her dark hair whipping behind her. “You are part of my son’s personal guard?”

Jude doesn’t miss the possessive way Orlagh says _son_. “Yes.”

“So would you say that you are particularly close to Cardan?”

“I don’t think anyone is particularly close to His Majesty,” replies Jude smoothly. “And as a mere member of his security detail, I don’t believe that there is any reason to define me in such a manner.”

“Hmm.” Orlagh moves closer, so close that Jude can see the dark brown-almost black color of her irises. “Well, it’s just that I heard reports that you and Cardan share a . . . special relationship.”

“Just rumors,” says Jude breezily. “Nothing more.”

“Nothing more?” Orlagh tilts her head, predatorily. “Well then, Jude, you should know that some of those reports were very . . . explicit.”

Jude shakes her head. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Your Majesty.”

“You’re not sure what I mean, you’re not sure what I mean. Of course, Jude. Of course.” Orlagh murmurs, almost soothingly. She sighs. “I had hoped that we would not have to play this game, Jude. That you would be respectful of our Fae boundaries and simply be truthful. But it does not seem as if that will pan out.”

Jude stifles a flinch as Orlagh reaches a hand out and cups Jude’s cheek. Her palm is cold against her face. “My daughter,” says Orlagh slowly, “is a fool. As is her husband. But you, Jude, you—you are much cleverer than them. Quicker. More cunning. I would have expected more of you.”

She says nothing, the choking scent of Orlagh’s floral perfume acting like a weapon of its own.

“Just know this, Jude Duarte,” whispers Orlagh. “If you continue this sordid liaison with my son, you will not go unpunished. Do you think that my influence is contained to my ridiculous domain? Do you think that I do not play a part in the scattered politics of Elfhame? No, I’m sure you do not. You are far too shrewd for that. So you know what I can do to those you cherish, those you love. I’m sure your twin sister would be devastated if she were to suddenly fall fatally ill. Or if your stepmother were to accidentally trip into the violent, rushing brook she passes every afternoon on her walk. Or perhaps if your older sister were to find her gateway to the human realm closed off indefinitely.

“And if you think that my decisions are limited to your family, you are sorely mistaken. Do you think that I have not considered a kingdom without Cardan, and how my Nicasia would be perfectly competent to manage affairs if that was the case?

“There is no limit to what I can do to make you suffer.”

Jude wars with herself as to whether to respond or not. But the quick opening and slamming of the library door makes the decision for her.

“Mother?”

Orlagh steps away from Jude. She is grateful for the fresh air that floods in to replace the queen’s suffocating scent. “Hello, Nicasia darling.”

Jude straightens, glancing towards the door. Nicasia is in the library, eyes narrowed at the scene between Jude and her mother. Cardan stands in the doorway, eyes also analyzing.

“What are you doing?”

“Just having a talk with Jude here about the security of the castle,” says Orlagh pleasantly. “It’s so very different from the Undersea, don’t you agree?”

“I was just leaving,” Jude reinforces quickly, making her way towards the exit. She can feel everyone’s eyes on her, and although she ducks her head through the door, it is just late enough that she makes eye contact with Cardan. Dark meets dark, and although his eyes shine with confusion and questions, she rejects it by lifting her head up high, not slowing her pace through the castle until she is far, far away from the library.

~*~

“Oh, oh! Cardan—”

“—Jude, shh, my sweet Jude—”

“Cardan—!” Jude lets out a desperate cry as she comes, her entire body going limp and falling to the sheets underneath her. Cardan lets out a low growl as he grinds his hips into hers one last time and climaxes himself, his warm weight settling on top of her. She lies, spread-eagled and panting, until Cardan manages to sneak his arms underneath her and pull her body against his. She slips her own arms around Cardan’s neck and presses her face into his sweat-sheened neck, exhausted. Her lover sighs quietly—lovingly—into her ear and brings her closer. Jude stays pressed against him, wriggling a little to the side as to avoid poking him in the ribs. Cardan tucks her head underneath his chin, pressing his nose into her hair and breathing deeply. She snuggles closer, despite the heat already radiating off both their skins.

It is moments like this that makes her wonder who they would be, in alternate lives. If Madoc had never murdered her parents, if she and Taryn and Vivi had grown up in the human realm like any other white picket fence kid. If Cardan had never been thrust onto the throne. Perhaps if their paths had never crossed at all. Perhaps, perhaps, per—

“Coin for your thoughts?”

Jude snorts. “You’re going to have to pay me a lot more than a couple of coins for my secrets,” she replies, this time poking him in the ribs.

“Ow,” complains Cardan. “Excuse me for being curious.” He rubs at his sore spot, before an austere look quickly shadows his face. “What did Orlagh want with you?”

Shit. She had known, somehow, that this would come up, but just a week after? “It really, really was nothing, Cardan.”

“Nothing? The woman I know, the one who thinks that her own kin are below her, would never stoop to talk to a human about anything, much less security procedures.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She sighs. “Cardan, you’re overreacting.”

“Am I?” Cardan places his hands on her cheeks—the same spot that Orlagh had touched—and forces Jude to look at him. “Am I?” He repeats, softly.

She stares him in the eye. “Yes.” Orlagh’s threats are very much present in her mind, and although she knows she’s lying, and Cardan surely knows—

He lets out a harsh breath. “I would trust you if I didn’t know you were lying.”

—That she is not willing to let anyone carry the burden of being herself.

Even so, the words strike a chord within her, and she turns away.

“Just tell me the truth, Jude.”

She hates how coaxing his tone is.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Cardan moves closer, and presses his chest against her back. His chin rests gently on her shoulder as he murmurs, “Please, Jude. Please.”

“I can’t.”

“Jude—”

“—I can’t.” The words sound feeble even to her. “I just can’t.”

She hears Cardan exhale sharply behind her, and for a second she thinks he’s going to break out in rage. But all that comes out is a simple, “Alright.”

She peers back up at him. She’s expecting to see some sort of burning indignance in those obsidian orbs, but there’s nothing. It’s almost as if Cardan knows better than to press.

The thought of it hurts her more than it relieves her.

Jude leans up to press her lips gently to his, her body cocooning itself back into the king’s arms as she does. The first kiss is chaste, but as Cardan puts a hand to the back of her head and deepens it, she can feel a little bit of their previous heat come back, warm and warmer and hot. “Cardan.”

“Hmm?”

She swallows a gasp into their kiss as she feels the brush of his fingers between her legs, right where—

“Car— _Cardan_.”

There’s a soft laugh as he angles his fingers between her folds and thrusts. She throws her head back, breaking their kiss. “Yes, Jude?”

“I—” Her train of thought is broken by his fingers hitting— _exactly_ — _that spot,_ oh—

“Jude?” He murmurs quietly.

“Yeah?”

He leans his lips close to her ear, and whispers softly. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

Fuck. She had forgotten all about what Cardan had said to her almost exactly a month ago, his inane plan to marry her. As much as it had given her pause to call it idiotic as the month had progressed. But there was no better time to let him down gently than tomorrow. “Yes.”

Jude feels his lips curve into a smile against her neck. “Good,” he says softly. “Now, back to before . . .”

A small laugh bubbles up in her throat as Cardan flips her on her back, before he manages to silence her with another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Psst! Jude's ballgown is real! Find it [here.](https://www.jjshouse.com/Ball-Gown-Off-The-Shoulder-Sweep-Train-Satin-Evening-Dress-With-Beading-017164952-g164952)


	4. part iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said. I love Nicasia.

Cardan adjusts his shirt as he stares into the mirror. _Dinner_. He could almost laugh at the word, a simple a concept as it was. And yet, tonight means much more than just . . . _dinner_.

Alas, that is what he had promised Jude. Dinner with a side of marriage tonight.

He had done it. After a month of searching, of bribing every possible historian and consul in the court, he had found a loophole. Simpler than he had thought, as simple as he should have known. Cardan had not been the one to take Nicasia’s virginity. Something that he, Nicasia, and Orlagh all know. All he has to do is to notify the powers that be, and revoke the marriage. And it is the word of a High King against that of some queens. Neither of which were of Elfhame, if you squinted.

Something in his heart twangs at the deception, and what it will likely do to Nicasia.

“I’m getting soft,” he mutters to himself, adjusting his sleeve. He glances at the clock. Five-thirty. Looking up into the mirror, he runs a nervous hand through his hair.

He thinks of Jude, and smiles.

“Would I were steadfast as thou,” he whispers.

~*~

Jude sighs as she flips through her reports. The Roach glances over at her, and she can see the smirk curving his lips. “Not as interesting as you thought, is it? Being a spy,” he chortles.

She raises a warning brow at him. “Get your feet off the desk.”

Arms surrendered in the air, he acquiesces. “Sure, Mother.”

“Are these from the thing we checked out yesterday?” Jude tosses a stack of files onto the Roach’s desk opposite her.

He glances at them. “Oh, no. These are actually documents from the Undersea. Something about trade deals. You should brief Cardan on these when you get the chance.”

 _Undersea._ Her mind snags on the name, and a shock runs through her heart before she tampers it down. No. No, she will not think about it, especially today. Tonight. She is still sure that Cardan had left some loose ends in his quest to marry her, and that tonight’s dinner is just another way to get in her pants.

She is almost praying that is the case.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Of course.”

“You seem nervous,” says the Roach, tilting his head.

“What? Of course not, don’t be stupid,” she snaps.

“Whoa, whoa, alright, alright, tiger. Don’t bite.” She watches as he gets up and walks to the liquor cabinet across the room. “But you look like you could use some booze.”

Jude glances at the clock. It is six o’clock. She is supposed to meet Cardan at seven. “No, I’m—I’m alright.”

The spy raises an eyebrow. “Really? Something’s wrong, then. I’ve never seen Jude Duarte, spy extraordinaire, also human girl, refuse a drink, especially—” he dangles the bottle in front of her “—something that’s not made for Fae. Meaning, perfectly safe to consume for humans. Meaning—”

“—I know what it means.” She rolls her eyes. Well, it would be one way to take the edge off. “Fine. Pour me some.”

“All right!” The amber liquid sloshes into a glass. The Roach slides it across their desks to her, and they clink glasses. “Cheers,” he declares. “And gods save the Queen.”

The whiskey burns and warms her throat, and the clock ticks behind her.

~*~

Nicasia all but rips the pins out of her hair as she sits at her vanity. The sun is rising, rays floating in through the windows behind her.

Her mother’s visit had rattled her more than she cares to admit. Her mother had whispered so softly to her that she wasn’t sure if Cardan, standing a mere foot and a half away, had even heard.

“What did I tell you?” Orlagh had demanded. “Didn’t I tell you to take care of this?”

“Mother, I—”

“—no. No more excuses. I don’t want to hear them.” Orlagh had leaned closer, her hand coming to wrap around Nicasia’s waist. To anyone else, it would have looked like a loving embrace between mother and daughter. To Nicasia, it had been the scrape of the queen’s nails against her bare skin, hard enough to draw blood. “You solve this,” hissed her mother through teeth still gritted in a sweet smile. “Or I leave.”

“Mother—?”

“—you lose me. Forever. Cardan’s weakness—and your weakness enabling him by not controlling the throne—makes Elfhame worthless to me. Do you honestly believe I want to associate myself with this kingdom? Other realms jeer at you, Nicasia. At you and Cardan both. They reminisce about the kings of old, and they even talk about Eldred. About Eldred! They prefer that dead fool over you. I will not stand beside a kingdom like that.”

“What are you saying?” Nicasia had asked weakly.

Her mother shook her head in disgust. “You _are_ clueless, aren’t you? Why do you think Cardan is married to you? Why do you think you are queen? That boy would have never agreed to marry you if you hadn’t come to me. If I hadn’t ensured that he was too afraid to back out. Without me . . . the only question is, how long will he give you out of courtesy before running off to his mistress and making _her_ queen?”

And seeing her mother in the library with Jude after that . . . it had sent her spiraling. She hadn’t slept well since. Not until she had formulated a plan.

She hears the castle clock chime five times. Then glances at the empty bottle in front of her mirror.

Nicasia just hopes that it is enough.

~*~

Cardan gets to the cottage early. Jude is not home yet, but the house still smells of her. Orange and lemon and ginger. He can smell it in her hair, on her neck, the sides of her thighs, when he had been down there . . .

Enough. He twists his fingers, nervously, as he begins to unpack food. Gods, no, he’s definitely gone soft. Cardan’s also a shit cook, so this could either end in the most fantastic proposal any woman has ever had, or in a massive fire. He’s almost tempted to flip a coin to find out.

But he settles on washing the carrots first, and notes the setting sun. Well, it had taken him about a half-hour to walk from the palace.

Six o’clock. Right on schedule.

~*~

Nicasia adjusts her headscarf. She feels silly, playing at incognito in her own palace, and circling around again and again, but she has to know.

She has to know if she was successful.

She has no idea where the court of spies meet. But she knows that it cannot be too far from the palace, and that there must be an entrance to the palace, so—

“Excuse me, no one is allowed here!” A soldier comes out of nowhere, his face set.

_There it is._

In another time she would have torn off her poor disguise and demoted him on the spot for speaking to her in such a manner, but now she merely bats her eyelashes at him.

“Sir, I’m staying in the palace as a guest, I’m afraid I’ve lost my way . . .”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but no one is allowed in this part of the palace.”

“Oh, I’m just trying to find my way to the library?”

The guard nods down the hallway. “Straight down, to the left. Now, my lady, I apologize, but I need this hallway clear.”

“Of course, of course.” She tries to calm the hammering in her chest. “I’m so sorry, but may I know why? My—um—my son is with me, and he’s so small, and I don’t want him wandering here by accident,” she gives an altogether not-so-faked nervous smile. “I just want a reason to give to him.”

The soldier purses his lips and looks like he is about to completely kick her out of her own hallway before sighing. “There’s someone hurt around here. I don’t know who it is, I was just told to make sure the hallway is clear when they bring them in.”

“Oh! Oh my, I do hope that they turn out alright.” She doesn’t bother looking back before taking off.

Outside, the clock chimes seven.

~*~

Cardan sits in the kitchen by himself. It’s a tiny kitchen. With barely enough space for anything. Two chairs, pushed against a table, that was it. Jude’s dining room.

He checks the clock on the wall for the umpteenth time. Eight o’clock. Fine, so he had told Jude seven. So she had forgotten.

No. She wouldn’t forget. And he had reminded her last night.

So she had been held up by something. That wasn’t unusual. She had been delayed for three hours once—and the Ghost had come away with a nearly severed arm—before she had been able to meet him. She had been bloodied, battered, but fine.

Yes. That was probably it. All that.

Cardan rubs his eyes and moves to cap the soup before anything gets cold. So he would wait. He had done it before.

He would do it again.

~*~

Gods, she should get going. It is nearly six-thirty, and Cardan doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

But as she knocks back another one with the Roach, laughing about the one time the Bomb accidentally set herself on fire, she can’t help but stay. Jude stares down at her fingers again. Specifically, that one finger. The one on her left hand, the one that she had been forced to get used to adorned with a ring on her sister’s.

And look how well that had turned out for Taryn.

“Look, Jude,” began the Roach. “It’s really none of my business. But we’ve—we’ve been working together for what, three years now—”

“—if this is your way of asking me out,” she says, pouring them both another round. “You’re kind of an idiot.”

“Ugh. I prefer Fae women.”

“What. An. Elitist.”

“Me? An elitist? How is it so wrong to want women of your own species?” The Roach points a finger at her. “It’s your Cardan that’s the strange one.”

Her smile falters. “Don’t call him . . . he’s not mine.”

“Ah. So that’s what this is about.” The Roach grins. “Affairs of the _heart_.”

She wrinkles her nose and drains her glass. “Don’t say it like that.”

“We’re spies, we’re assassins, we’re anything our court needs us to be,” ponders the Roach. “We deal with just about everything that comes in and out of this shithole. But love—” he whistles. “That’s a whole new game.”

She scoops hair off of her face. “I know. It’s . . . it’s just . . . he wants to propose.”

The spy blinks. “What?” He snorts. “Um, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we have something called marriage, and usually, like, 99% of the time, when you’re already involved in that thing called marriage, you don’t go out and go get involved with another person in the same thing. It’s called marriage, do you need me to search it—”

“—I think I understand the conventions of marriage, Roach. And don’t lecture me about Cardan or Nicasia, we’ve sworn our loyalty to them, I think I know who they are.”

“And you’re fucking one of them, so I would really want you to know who they are.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“Cardan claims he’s found a way to divorce Nicasia. Some convoluted way. And he wants to tell me tonight, over dinner”

“Did he elaborate?”

“No! That’s—” she sighs. “That’s the thing. I don’t even know if _he_ knows what he’s doing. I don’t know if he’s jumping to conclusions without doing the work. You know Cardan; he’s always too eager for things that can’t be done.”

“Well,” says the Roach slowly. “Those were all things that don’t matter to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s always wanted simple things. Treaties with other kingdoms, trade negotiations. Alright, so maybe those aren’t _simple_ things. But they’re doable things. Give or take some time. And he’s always backed off in the end. Let us take the reins. But you—you are the only thing that matters to him.”

“Then he’s a fool.”

“No, he’s a man in love. He’s a different type of fool.”

“I don’t—” she exhales impatiently. “I don’t want to love him, Roach.”

“It's not your choice.”

“I—I—jusdon’twanna.”

“Oops, that’s my bad,” says the Roach, chortling at Jude. “The slurring’s starting, I think you should lay off the alcohol.”

But her head feels dizzy as well. “Um, R—Roach, I—” She coughs, violently, and her throat feels raw. Jude brings her palm up to cover her mouth, stifling the sound. But when she pulls it away, it is scarlet. Her legs suddenly feel weak, and she grabs onto the edge of the table for stability, only to collapse out of her chair completely.

She can hear the Roach moving somewhere near her. “Jude. Jude! Jude, what’s wrong?”

Her chest begins to convulse and seize as the coughs worsen, but there is nothing for her to grab onto to cough whatever it is inside her out. The Roach approaches her, but even he seems stunned, until Jude begins to claw desperately at her throat. “Up,” he says, more to himself than Jude. “Up, up, we need to get you—” he props her up against him, an arm around her waist for support, but the coughing does not get any better. Jude begins to slump over his arm, trickling blood from her mouth to the floor.

“Roach—R—”

“—shh,” her friend says sharply. “Don’t speak. We need to figure out—”

She shakes her head. “C—Cardan—I—”

“—he’s fine, he’s fine, he’s at your cottage, right? He’ll be fine.”

“M—my—I can’t—” her vision is becoming blurry at the edges, then advancing to the middle. “I can’t—s—see.”

And then it feels like falling. Over and over and over again. Just like it feels like burning. Over and over again. She has been trained to deal with pain, but this—this is something far different from a wound.

“Alright, Jude, just stay with me,” says the Roach sharply. “I’m going to run out for a second, find someone, and we’ll get a healer down here to see you. And you will be fine.”

The warmth behind her left her, and she lay flat against the cold floor once more.

She should have gone to the cottage earlier.

~*~

Nicasia allows herself the luxury of a small smile as she steps into her mother’s quarters. Even the attendants outside, used to seeing her grow up, had been taken aback.

But she feels like a new woman tonight, reborn. Perhaps even like Queen Mab herself, strong and—

“Nicasia. What are you doing here?”

She greets her mother with a broad smile. “I took care of our . . . problem.”

A rare smile graces Orlagh’s lips. “I want to hear all about this,” she purrs, taking Nicasia’s hands. “What did you do?”

She beams.

“I killed her.”

Silence. Absolute silence. Before—

—a crack sounds as Orlagh’s palm connects with Nicasia’s pale cheek.

The force of it is enough to send the queen hurtling towards the floor.

“You _imbecile_ ,” snarls her mother, her face impossibly ugly as she leers at Nicasia. “You absolute _fool_.”

“I—Mother, I—I thought that was what you wanted,” Nicasia says weakly. “For me to—”

“—yes! I wanted you to take care of the problem, not slaughter it completely! You—you—!” Orlagh paces around her room in unspeakable fury. “You are a beautiful fool,” she says softly. “You are beautiful, and a fool, and it seems that neither of those qualities have served you well.” She sees her daughter cowering on the floor. “Get up!” She demands.

Shakily, Nicasia pulls herself to her feet. “But, Mother,” she tries. “Without Jude in the picture, I—”

“—solutions are not just _made_ because you kill, Nicasia. If that was the case, I would be Empress of the World by now. How do you think your lovely husband will feel when he discovers that his love, his life, the woman he probably _wishes_ was his wife—” Nicasia flinches “—is dead? And at your hands?”

“I took precautions.”

“Like what?”

“It was a poison. It . . . it can’t be linked back to me.”

The queen scoffs. “Everything can be linked. What else? How did you administer it?”

“It was in whiskey. Human whiskey, so she would drink it. Th—there’s a section of the wine room that people like to swipe alcohol from, so I put the poison bottle in it so that her friends would choose it—”

“—what type of poison was it? From what I’ve heard, she’s developed some unique immunities to poisons.”

“It was a mix of—” she searches her mind for the name. “It was a mix of belladonna and jequirty. Things that wouldn’t be toxic to Fae, but—”

“—how can you be sure she didn’t develop a sweet little immunity to those too?”

She swallows. “I took a gamble,” she says finally. “She’s in Elfhame, and I don’t think she’s traveled much. She would have likely stuck to local plants, figured that those would be the ones of most importance. I had to barter with traders from far away just to get the plants.”

“And the traders? Those loose ends?”

“I went in disguise.”

Her mother lets out an impatient growl. “Disguised isn’t good enough! If people go searching, you might as well just jump off a balcony now.”

“Mother, please, they won’t find out,” she pleads. “They won’t.”

“And if they do?” Orlagh advances. _"If they do?”_

Nicasia elects not to speak, her heart already racing itself to death.

“If they do, I will not stand behind you. I will not throw my kingdom behind a queen who will surely get it and herself destroyed. Understood?”

She bows her head, trying to keep the tears from spilling. “Understood.”

“For now,” her mother settles on a sofa. “Keep the situation contained.”

Orlagh’s personal clock—a mess of pearls and jewels—begins to play a joyful melody. Nicasia sneaks a look. Nine o’clock.

~*~

Nine o’clock. Then ten o’clock. Then eleven o’clock.

She hadn’t shown.

Cardan slumps against the back of one of the couches in the tiny living room. He brings the bottle of one of Jude’s finest mortal wines up to his lips and takes a long swig.

So she didn’t want him.

She didn’t want him.

She didn’t want him.

She is most likely away from Faerie now, crashing at Vivi and Heather’s, spending time with Oak. A Faerie royal she probably prefers over him.

Cardan lets out a strangled roar and kick at a chair, watching as it tips over and makes a cracking sound as it connects with the floor. He threads a hand through his hair and pulls desperately. Gods, he was so stupid. So, so stupid to think that this was something more than a casual fling, just like the rest of his relationships. Just another casual—

“Your Majesty.”

He jumps as he sees the tall figure of the Ghost shadowing over him.

“What?” He snaps, not even bothering to ask how the spy got in. Cardan drinks heavily from the bottle, shooting the Ghost a defiant look. As if he was seventeen again, looking for highs in all the wrong places.

“You should come back to the palace.”

“No.”

“Cardan, you need to come back to the palace.”

It’s the _need_ , not should, not please, that catches his attention. “Need? Why?”

The Ghost looks away before looking at him, and already Cardan’s heart is beginning to pound. “It’s Jude. She’s . . . she’s not good.”

~*~

Nicasia closes the door and locks it behind her.

Her mother is right. She is a fool.

The queen sinks down onto her bed, face in hands. No. No. She had not come this far to be discovered. Perhaps . . . perhaps they would not know where to look. For one, she hadn’t been wrong when she had told Orlagh that poisons were undetectable. And Jude has— _had_ —so many enemies. It could have been any number of them.

And Cardan doesn’t suspect her. How could he? She hadn’t begged him for anything recently, had barely talked to him.

A knock sounds at the door. “Your Majesty?”

“What is it?”

“You didn’t have supper, would you like to take it in your room?”

Her stomach gives a gurgle in protest at the thought of food, and she replies weakly, “No, I’m—I’m not feeling well.”

“Shall I send for a healer?”

“N—no, I’ll be fine.”

Because she would be.

She would ensure it.

~*~

He had not left her bedside.

It had been only out of the Roach’s sweet-talking that they had even been allowed to move Jude to a spare room, even with the king there.

She had been dead before he had arrived.

Jude’s hand was cold in his fingers, and—gods, he couldn’t even bring himself to look at her face. Her face, pale and grayed over.

Cardan had always known that this day would come. That perhaps she is a mortal and perhaps he is an immortal. What difference two letters makes. But he had put it out of his mind. Decades, he had told himself. Perhaps even close to a century, if they were lucky.

And yet someone had seen fit to take that away from him as well.

His chest hurts as if . . . as if nothing. He is used to feeling everything. Rage, sadness, desire. And it had nearly destroyed him for twenty-two years. Somehow, the emptiness is worse. He can’t bring himself to roar, or cry. Only the compulsion to look at Jude’s austere face keeps him upright.

Cardan finally understands why people are distraught when they look at people they had known, dead. Because Jude had never looked like this when she—he swallows.

Jude had never been plain like this, mouth set in a straight line, laying still. She had always been vibrant. Vibrantly happy and vibrantly angry. There is something beautiful in her scowls, perfect in her smiles, and gorgeous in her sleep. She is powerful, and fearless, and—

—had been.

Had been.

He can’t . . . it isn’t is, it’s . . . _was_.

“Your majesty?” The Ghost’s not-oft used voice sounds from the doorway, rough and scratchy.

“Who did this?” Even his voice sounds foreign to him, as if Cardan is hearing it from a third perspective. He doesn’t look back for the Ghost’s expression. At seeing his king so undone.

“We’re trying to figure it out—”

“—figure it out faster.”

He can see the Ghost bow his head out of the corner of his eye, but he is so beyond compassion right now.

 _I’m no murderer,_ he had once said to Jude. Said it as if he had promised her.

He turns away from her body.

Promises mean nothing now.

~*~

The Bomb watches as her court collapses.

Their court, which had been assembled under the watch of a murderer prince but had formed a covenant stronger than that. Their court, which had allowed a mortal interloper to become important, and—dare she say it—part of the family.

The Roach takes it upon himself to watch Jude’s body round the clock, eyes fixed on her glass-encased tomb. Faeries burned their dead, but Jude is—was—mortal. So they had resorted to something that looks awfully like a prop straight out of a human fairytale.

Except this time, the prince is as broken as his love.

The Bomb carries Jude’s death with her. They will never discuss it, never acknowledge that they had all thought at one point that the mortal might actually outlive _them_ —the Roach when Jude had taken an arrow to the side and lived, the Ghost when she had fallen from the rafters and escaped with barely a scratch, and the Bomb the moment that the girl had become Jude Kingmaker. That part of them will be locked up for the rest of their lives, never to be spoken of again. They will not speak of the fact that they had all betrayed their cardinal rule.

No one is safe.

~*~

Oriana squeezes her eyes shut as she curls to her side of the bed. Beside her, Madoc sleeps soundly.

“Shame,” was all he had said when she, struggling to control herself, had told him. “Shame.” More chastisement than mourning. For a girl he had made an orphan and nearly killed on a number of occasions.

“Shame.”

Oriana fists her fingers in the sheets. And what about Oak now? Who would protect him? Now that Jude is gone, now that they are all exposed. Cardan knows, he surely does, but she knows the boy won’t do anything. She knows that the boy can’t do anything. Jude’s spies surely know, but they were the ones who had killed Liriope.

And Jude herself . . .

Oriana does not cry. She is much steelier than that.

But for all that steeliness, she saw Liriope in Jude.

And she couldn’t help her.

Again.

~*~

Taryn cries for days and days.

She cries so much that Locke exiles her to the guest room, “exhausted by your incessant crying.” She cries so much that the servants whisper among themselves, _is this what humans are really like?_ She cries so much that she doesn’t eat.

Taryn is not . .  . she’s not . . . she can’t even come up with a defense for herself. What? What is she not? Stupid? Idiotic? Spoiled? Vain? Short-sighted? Selfish?

But she had loved her sister.

Her only redeeming quality.

~*~

Nicasia shuts the door behind her, exhaling.

It had been days, nearly three weeks since Jude’s death. She had spent the first week in shock, the second in panic, and the third in relaxation. She knows her court’s spies. They are good. And if they had—

“Hello, _wife_.”

Cardan spits the word like a cherry pit.

She hadn’t even noticed him sitting on her bed. She swallows discreetly. “Cardan. Darling, I hadn’t expected you here. Can I help you?”

Nicasia watched him twirl a ring in his hands. It doesn't look like his—it's far too small.

She can only guess at what it means.

“Actually, you can.”

Nicasia stays, rooted to the spot, as Cardan draws a sword from gods-knows-where. “Cardan,” she says weakly. “What—”

“—you know, I suspected you,” the king says. He wields the sword with ease. “But I thought, _no, Nicasia wouldn’t do that. She has the decency not to._ ” Cardan paces closer, until she’s pressed up against her door and the hilt of the sword is mere inches away from her delicate neck. “But lo and behold, it turns out that you ordered a particularly potent mix of human poisons to be delivered to you. The same mix that was found in—” he stops, and Nicasia can see an unreadable emotion in his eyes. “—her.”

“Cardan, I—I—have no idea what you’re saying.” She struggles to keep the stammer out of her voice. “What are you accusing me of?”

The High King laughs, a sound that shoots straight to her bone. It is devoid of emotion, harsh and cold. “What,” he muses, and she stifles a cry as the blade finally touches her neck. “Am I accusing you of?”

They’ve reached a fever pitch, she thinks. _Gods, he’s going to kill me—_

“What am I accusing you of?” He snarls, but Nicasia starts at the sight of tears starting to shine in his eyes. _“What am I accusing you of?”_ He shouts.

She stands still in fear as Cardan all but collapses against the wall. The blade drives deeper into her neck, on the verge of drawing blood. His head drops, lolling as he stares at the floor.”Why?” He whispers. _“Why did you do it?”_

“Why did I do it?” She chokes out. The same flash of anger, the one that had started this whole mess, rushes through her. Nicasia shoves Cardan away. He stumbles back. _“Why did I do it?”_ It is her turn to laugh maniacally, pacing back and forth in front of him. “I did it,” she spat, “because I was so _sick_ of you looking at her like that. I was so _sick_ of tolerating your little escapades. I was so _sick_ of playing the little poor naive wife, _oh, that poor thing, she has no idea her husband’s fucking that mortal, I wonder why he doesn’t want her—_ ” Nicasia breathes heavily. Cardan is still watching her, sword at his side.

“I am queen!” She finally screams at him, stabbing herself in the chest with her finger as she points at herself. “I am queen! But you never gave a shit, did you? I don’t—I didn’t care about not having you! I might have, in the beginning, when you refused to even share a room with me, but after that—I didn’t care! All I wanted,” her voice is sore. “All I wanted,” she whispers. “Was to be queen. All I was ever raised to do was to be queen. And even she had to take that away from me, but do you know what?” Nicasia shakes her head. “I don’t—I don’t even know if I can hate _just_ her for taking that away from me.”

She doesn’t look up as the door slams open, or as someone grabs her roughly and escorts her out. She doesn’t look up as she’s led to the dungeon, in front of all the courtiers and servants.

The queen doesn’t look up as the High King looks down at her one last time, before the cell door closes.

~*~

From his seat in front of the cottage, he can hear the bells. Cardan counts twenty, one for each year of Nicasia’s life.

So they had done it. They had executed her.

He lays down on the grass, watching the day shift from sun to moon. A small fire crackles next to him, offering warmth. The king closes his eyes. He will not sleep tonight. There is long to go before he will again. Or perhaps he will not. Never again. Cardan had thought that getting rid of Nicasia—of Jude’s murderer—would bring him peace.

It has brought anything but.

Except for the fact that he would do it again. In a heartbeat.

In his breast pocket, he carries two things.

Jude’s ring—if she had said yes. If she had ever gotten the chance to say yes.

A letter from Orlagh. He hasn’t opened it yet.

But he can guess at the message.

No matter what she had done, Nicasia had been a princess of the Undersea. Her death could not go unpunished.

He opens his eyes.

Jude is not here. Jude will never come back.

Jude cannot stop him from what he had created.

He leans down and picks a piece of charred firewood from the flames and hurls it at the cottage. It crashes through the window and he can see violent red sparks spurting inside the house. He keeps throwing, until the entire cottage is up in flames.

Finally, Cardan takes Orlagh’s letter out. He breaks the seal, and all it takes is half a second to glance at it before he crumples it in his fist, throwing it towards the cottage. It disappears in the flood of flames.

_Return my daughter. Or face the consequences._

He watches until all that is left of the cottage where he had loved and lost is down to the ground. Cardan turns away.

“Off to war, then,” he whispers to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read part v (posting tomorrow!) -------------->
> 
> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


	5. part v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is technically a bonus chapter. An alternate version of things, so to speak. What would have happened if . . . (AKA fanfic for my fanfic). 
> 
> Takes place after Jude and the Roach's conversation.

“Jude? Jude!”

Every part of her body feels . . . dull. Well, in dull pain. She groans as a light manages to burn through her eyelids.

But she’s quickly being scooped up in someone’s arms. “Mmh,” she mumbles, snuggling closer to her mystery savior. Her head hurts like hell, but at least she’s got . . . whoever this is. Jude feels her carrier exhale, and a comforting weight come down on the top of her head.

She’s safe. That’s all she knows.

~*~

Jude wakes up in a bed. Her vision is still bleary, and she has to blink a few times to clear it. But the sheets feel familiar under her, and the wooden paneling, and—

“Jude?” Warmth begins to curl around her hand, and this, _this_ she knows.

Weakly, as if moving against a tide, she turns her head to the side. The walls of her cottage become clearer, but she’s more focused on what’s right in front of her. Peering at her, worry clear in his eyes even through her fuzzy sight, is Cardan. Cardan’s here. She manages a soft smile. “Hi,” she croaks. “What—”

“—no, shh,” he rushes, stroking her hair back. “Are you okay? Are you sure? I—”

“—I’m fine,” she whispers back, her voice still raspy. “What—what happened?” She coughs, and before she can react, Cardan has a glass of water held up to her lips. “Cardan, I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, I—” he runs a hand through his hair, anxiety evident. “I know,” he apologizes. “I know, but—”

“—Cardan.” She reaches for his hand again. “Just tell me what happened.”

The king exhales, lifting their intertwined hands up to his mouth and pressing a lingering kiss on it. “Orlagh tried to kill you.”

“What?” Jude shakes her head, trying to run through the events of . . . she didn’t even know when. “When—I—how long—how?”

“You’ve been unconscious for about three weeks.”

_“Three weeks?”_

Cardan nods.

“How? I—why?” Jude is at a loss for words.

“The Roach says it was a mix of some deadly Faerie plants. And that if you hadn’t been so skilled at mithridatism, you would have died.” Cardan’s voice shakes on the last word. “And as for why . . .” He sighs. Burdened. “I talked to Nicasia. Orlagh had been pressuring her to do something about . . .” he gestures between them, and Jude understands. “Us. And I suppose Orlagh became impatient and decided to take the situation into her own hands.”

“So she tried to kill me.” Jude says flatly.

“Jude, I—”

“—I love you.”

Cardan blinks. “What?”

“I love you.”

Just as she had predicted, his eyes swell with tears. Jude lifts her arms up in a silent request to be embraced, and Cardan acquiesces. They curl around each other underneath the sheets, like they had always done. She knows Cardan is sobbing by the shake of his shoulders, but he holds her steady. “That’s your first thought?”

She shrugs as much as she can, still squashed underneath him. “Almost dying will do things to you.” Jude poked him in the ribs. “What about you? You haven’t said anything back.”

Finally, he laughs. “I love you,” he whispers. “I love you, I love you, I love you, Jude Duarte.”

They stay like that, and Jude revels in the warmth. Because this is the man she loves, because perhaps the impact of her near-death hasn’t set in yet, but it will soon. Because she knows what this night—well, the night three weeks ago—means to him.

“Marry me.”

“Cardan, please, I love you, but—”

“—no. Marry me.”

She lifts her head to find him staring at her. “Cardan,” she exhales. “I —don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a little bit?”

“No.”

“How would this even work? You’re still _married,_ for gods’ sakes—”

“—I’m not.”

It was Jude’s turn to stare at him. “What?” She sits up.

“Nicasia and I . . . went our separate ways.”

“Why?” She demands.

Cardan leans his cheeks against her hair. “I guess . . . losing her mother—”

“—losing her mother?”

“We caught Orlagh. And I was . . . angry, and—” she can hear it in his voice. “Angry. That’s all I was. So I didn’t see ahead. And I just—”

“—you killed her.”

“She tried to _kill_ you, Jude,” snarls the king. “Do you think I was going to let that go?”

No. Even if she had been conscious, even if she had tried to counsel him against it, she wouldn’t have been able to stop him.

 _He’s always wanted simple things._ The Roach had said to her. _But you—you are the only thing that matters to him._

“Nicasia saw what happened.”

“Did she try to stop you?”

“No.” He pauses. “I think she realized . . . whatever it was. And no, I didn’t pressure her the moment after the ax fell. But she left. She's . . . she’s Queen of the Undersea now. I don’t know, but I think . . . I think that’s where she belongs. Truly.”

Jude stays silent. Her heart pounds.

She feels Cardan’s finger under her chin. He tips her face up. Jude bites her lip as their eyes meet, and she is suddenly aware of the warmth of his fingers on her waist as they slide down from her chin, the feeling of his breath tickling her neck. He trails his hands back up her torso and up to her cheeks.

“So,” he murmurs. “Jude Duarte, will you marry me?”

She knows it certainly isn’t, but she feels as if she is on a grand precipice between life and death. Between her past and future. Jude is not some pretty protagonist of a romance film, crying when her boyfriend—if she can even call him something as absurdly simple as that—gets down on one knee and all her problems are solved. But she feels oddly like one, in the moment.

_I don’t want to love him._

_But you can’t control it._

Roach had been right.

And so, jumping headfirst, she threw herself off the cliff.

“Okay.”

He jolts. “Okay?”

She smiles—no, _grins—_ “Yes. Yes, Cardan, I will marry you.”

He slams his lips against hers, and she knows. Knows that he, too, had jumped. Taken that risk. She lets out a giggle—a _giggle—_ against his mouth, and wraps her arms around his neck.

They break apart, and she laughs as she catches her breath. Cardan takes her face in his hands again. He presses his forehead against hers. “Let’s do it.”

“I thought I already said yes?”

“No, I mean—” he exhales, the closeness of his body making her lean into him. “Now. Let’s get married now.”

“What?” It’s her turn to lean away, staring at him. “Cardan, you’re—I—look, I know you’re worried about this, and that me getting poisoned scared you—it scared me, too, but—”

“—there is no ‘but,’” he says. “Do you know how I felt after I saw you, lying on the floor of the Court of Shadows’ hideout? How I thought you were dead, because the Roach was already there, and he didn’t know what was wrong? How I felt even after Orlagh was gone, and you were still unconscious? How I felt, thinking that you would never wake up?” Cardan takes her hands in his. “I don’t want to ever feel that again,” he says. “Ever.”

She smiles, soft and sweet. “You’re going to have to.”

He exhales shakily. “Decades,” he says finally. “Decades down the line, perhaps. Not now. Never now, never again.” Cardan kisses her fingers. “Do it with me, Jude,” he whispers. “Marry me.”

Jude wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, almost like a second proposal, but—

“Okay.”

~*~

Val Moren looks at him for the millionth time. “Are you sure?”

Cardan shoots him a glance. The court poet is not a particularly zealous man, in prejudice or in anything (it is why he is the court _poet_ ). The king sighs and attempts to keep his impatience under control as he replies, “Yes, Val Moren. I’m quite sure.”

“Of course, of course, it’s just that this has never been done before, and I—” He cuts off as Cardan holds up a hand.

Jude is late. Alright, she isn’t late, but she’s about to be. Cardan struggles to keep his mind off of it. Trying not to remember the last time she had been late.

 _You just saw her,_ he reminds himself. _She’ll be here._

He shuffles his feet. He and Val Moren do not look at each other. Cardan wonders what Val Moren must feel. He was the one who had married him and Nicasia, after all. Would he ask after the former queen?

He sees a flash of brightness out of the corner of his eye, and tries not to rush to the side of the gazebo to see what it is. It, in fact, his bride.

Jude rushes up the steps of the gazebo, holding a hand to her hair to keep any flyaways down. “Sorry,” she gasps. “I got held up.”

“That’s alright,” he murmurs. He and Jude face each other, and he nods towards the court poet. “Let’s begin.”

Truth be told, he doesn’t hear much of Val Moren’s directions, or rambles about the meaning of marriage. He can’t stop looking at Jude. The floral pattern of her gown, the lovely off-white champagne color, the cleavage that the plunging neckline shows. Her hair is gathered in an updo, and he notes the braid sitting back on her forehead, with pearls running through it.

Like a crown.

“Your Majesty, Cardan Halwende Greenbriar, do you swear to take Jude—” the poet breaks off, sheepishly.

“Annamarie,” supplies Jude.

“Jude Annamarie Duarte to be your consort, under the laws of this court, and under the witness of the gods, Those who have given life unto you?”

Cardan takes one of Jude’s hands in his. “I swear under the laws of this court, and in the eyes of the gods, to take Jude Annamarie Duarte as my wife.”

“And you, Jude Annamarie Duarte, do you swear to take His Majesty, Cardan Halwende Greenbriar, to be your husband, under the laws of this court ,and under the witness of the gods, Those who have given life unto you?”

“I swear,” says Jude steadily, taking Cardan’s other hand in her empty one. “Under the laws of this court, and in the eyes of the gods, to take Cardan Halwende Greenbriar to be my husband.”

“Then, at the completion of this ceremony, I am bound by wish and authority to pronounce you husband and wife.” Val Moren offers them a soft smile, and Cardan thinks that he’s not so horrendous after all. “Congratulations.”

~*~

“‘His Majesty, Cardan Halwende Greenbriar,’” crows Jude as they walk. “What a mouthful. If my parents gave me _Halwende_ anywhere in my name, I would be pissed off.”

“It means ‘lonely,’ so I’ve been pissed off a few,” mutters Cardan.

She laughs, a strong, clear sound, and it amazes him that she’s here. She’s awake. She’s alive.

He steps up to the cottage first, beating Jude to it. Opening the door, he offers a hand to Jude. She raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s a tradition,” he says, feeling a tad embarrassed. “For good luck.”

Jude keeps her doubt clear on her face, but takes his hand as she steps over the threshold. The door slams behind her, and there they are. He turns to face her. She’s already looking up at him, as if assessing. Cardan cups her cheeks, and soon they’re kissing.

The soon-to-be-crowned High Queen of Elfhame moans into Cardan’s mouth as the kiss deepens. He threads his fingers roughly into her hair, hoisting her up. Almost tripping in the process. Jude laughs against his mouth, but it’s rapidly quieted as he starts to carrying her upstairs.

Cardan kicks open their bedroom door, and he sets her down gently on her feet. She looks at him coyly. “What, no bed?”

He presses his forehead to hers, and it’s like the afternoon all over again. “I want to see you,” he whispers roughly. “All of you.”

Jude kisses him again, hands roaming his chest, fumbling with his shirt and jacket before finally managing to get them off. She begins to tug at his trousers, but he stops her. It is his turn to reach blindly behind her to try and get this dress off of her—

“They’re buttons,” she says against his mouth. “You’re never going to get them off.”

“Is that a challenge?” He murmurs in reply.

“You’re not allowed to rip this dress.”

“Not even a little?”

“Absolutely not—” Jude lets out a surprised cry as Cardan flips her, her back leaning against his chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he purrs, pressing a kiss to her neck. His fingers deftly work the back of her dress. One button opens. Another kiss. “You’re exquisite.” Another button opens. Jude shivers, twisting her neck to look at him. Cardan merely raises an eyebrow as he plants a kiss on the exposed skin of her back.

He works his way down the full length of her back in seconds. The dress pools at her feet. Jude turns to look at him, and he inhales sharply at the sight of her, completely nude.

“What, High King?” Jude asks, a smirk on her face. “Cat got your—” but she’s being placed on the bed before she can finish the question. Breathless, stupid looks on both their faces.

Cardan leans down and presses his forehead against hers, his hips moving against hers. She moans as she feels his arousal rub against her. But their lips don’t touch; time stands still for them.

“Wife,” whispers Cardan, and she shivers. It’s a word that can sound possessive in the ugliest of times, but rolling off of her lover’s tongue, its sounds . . . precious. Reverent. Pure.

She traces Cardan’s jaw before yanking him down to kiss him. He throws himself into it, both sets of lips bruising from the pressure. Jude knows that they must look insane, nails scratching, limbs in the air, but this is their time. Theirs and only theirs.

The rest of the world can go fuck themselves.

Cardan grunts as she rolls them over, and moans as she grinds her hips into hers. “Jude—”

“—beg.”

“What?”

Jude fists Cardan’s curls in her grip, and he groans as she pulls. “Beg for me, _High King_.”

He smiles smugly. “And what happens if I don’t? Will you—” he cuts off, a choking sound emitting from his throat as she calmly plunges her hand underneath his remaining clothes and palms him. “ _Jude_.” He moans.

It is her turn to smirk. “Beg for me.”

“Please, Jude, please—”

“—shh.” Jude tosses his trousers to the side, and Cardan throws his head back as she lowers her mouth onto him. She watches out of the corner of her eye as his tail curls in the air. Her hand moves to take what her throat cannot yet, and he lets out a low growl. Slowly, she exhales and takes more of him. His hips buckle into her mouth, a rhythm matched only by his gasps.

She withdraws before he can climax, and climbs on top of him again. This time, Cardan stares, almost like he’s terrified of her. But the gleam in his dark eyes reassures her. Jude leans in to kiss him, and he comes up eagerly. “Husband,” she murmurs.

Said husband lets out a choked sound of pleasure as she lowers herself—all of herself—onto him. Jude gasps at the same time, the sensation as sweet and familiar to her as it was to him.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his head falling back against the pillows.

She laughs breathlessly. “You—you—say that—every time,” Jude gasps, riding him into the sheets.

Suddenly, Cardan rises, and Jude can guess what he is about to— “Oh. Cardan—I— _oh._ ”

His fingers slide against the conjunction of her hips and his, to stroke—to stroke— _that._ Her mind was too occupied with the violent pulses running through her body. “Cardan,” she croaks.

The High King sits up fully, his lips coming to rest near her ear. He’s still buried deep inside her. A hand placed on her back keeps her upright; the other comes down to play with her breasts, stroking her nipples. But the strokes at her clit don’t stop, and in fact, they’ve changed, as if—

Oh gods. His tail. Oh gods, oh gods—all it takes is one glance down, and she can see the tufted tip of his tail moving languidly against her core. She whimpers, from both the waves of pleasure and the sight. Jude tries to squirm away, to gain control again, but Cardan holds her close.

“You know how much I love to be under your dominance, sweetheart,” Cardan purrs. “But let me pleasure you, Jude.” He leans down to suck a breast into his mouth, and she nearly cries from the overload of touch. “Let me take care of you.”

Jude moves before he can. But not up, not attempting to rid herself of all of his torture. Down—back onto him. Cardan doesn’t lean back down; he thrusts up instead, meeting her stroke for stroke, and she has to throw her arms around him for support. She pulls at his hair as she feels her climax coming.

“Jude,” he half-growls, half-moans. “Oh, Jude, gods, I’m close—”

Without thinking, she reaches down and grabs his tail, and it’s long enough for her to close her mouth around the hairless part of his tail, and run her tongue along the length of it. Cardan lets out a choked sound, and then a desperate roar as he pounds his hips into hers, over and over again until— “Gods, Jude— _Jude—_!”

She feels him come, but his hips keep going until his tail has fallen out of her mouth and her grip on his shoulders is all that is keeping her upright. She climaxes as roughly, with her nails embedded in his skin and his teeth sucking a bruise onto her neck.

They collapse against one another, falling back to the sheets, and Cardan strokes her hair—tenderly—as she comes down from her peak. He plants a kiss on top of her head as she closes her eyes and presses her cheek against his chest.

“Wait—I need to give you something.” Cardan is shifting underneath her. She sits up and pulls the blanket up to her chest—in futile modesty, admiring her still-naked lover, rummaging around in the pocket of his abandoned jacket.

Despite herself, her breath catches as he emerges with two golden, gleaming rings.

“I, uh, planned to give this to you before all of—” he gestures, almost sheepishly to the bed. “This.”

“I thought the Fae didn’t believe in material displays.”

“Well,” says Cardan as he brings Jude back into his arms. “Perhaps we should take a page out of the humans’ books, then.”

She watches as Cardan takes her hand and plants a kiss on her knuckles. Before sliding one of the two golden bands onto her finger. It catches the flickering candlelight in the room, emitting a soft warmth.

Jude reaches for its twin, and she mirrors Cardan’s actions. His knuckles are soft underneath her lips, and she can feel him watching as the ring fits perfectly onto his finger.

“My wife,” he whispers, eyes meeting hers. His hands come up to stroke her cheeks, the cold metal of his new ring striping across her skin. “My wife,” he repeats, and she can hear the pure joy in his voice.

A brilliant smile breaks across her face, brighter than anything she’s ever felt. “My husband,” she says softly. “My husband, my husband, my husband.”

And they’re both crying. It’s beyond ridiculous at this point—the ruthless spy, the cruel king—both locked in a tearful embrace. Gods, if their past selves could see them now. How laughable they would have found them.

Cardan brushes her tears away. “None of that,” he murmurs. “No sadness. Not tonight.”

She nods her agreement, and sniffs, still half-crying, half-laughing.

So her husband kisses her fiercely, slipping his lips down her neck, her torso, and her stomach and settling himself at the summit of her folds.

They make love until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jude's wedding dress is real! Find it [here](https://www.dresstells.com/ball-gown-lace-deep-v-neck-long-sleeves-court-train-appliques-beading-wedding-dress.html)!
> 
> \-----------------------------
> 
> Woww this is my first official finished multi-chapter fic! I'm going to miss balancing this and my TOG fic at the same time, but I don't think I'm quite done with this little world yet! (Multi-chaps with Nicasia, anyone? I REALLY LOVE NICASIA IN CASE YOU COULDN'T TELL) 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart for reading this and coming along this rollercoaster of a fic with me. 
> 
> Now, if you'll excuse me, I've spent the last month writing more smut than I've written my whole life before that, so I'm going to go bathe in holy water. 
> 
> \-----------------------------
> 
> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


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